Her specter hangs heavy over this space we share.
They say home is a womb, that home might be god
They say it's a gift to be an egg in a nest
A blue-speckled piece of child.
When I blew out on a morning zephyr,
Home fled, fading into a black dot
And so I resided in the horizon
Watching sun and moon hatch upon the skyline.
Before she loosed me into this space
I felt I was a ruin within a ruin
Ever loved, never loved each petal plucked
From the flower head round our refuge.
It took her 14 long years to remember my name
And I held her hand, the belt lash hand
So small, so fragile, even after a life in discipline
Ringing blow after blow upon my cracking ovum.
In her old age, we sit and breathe the same air
Roosted up in this room for the dying
This room she moved into knowing no more
Than I did the day she laid me into this space.
How large the world seems to the young!
And though I counted all the continents
With my boy wings, my boy feet
It was always back to her room in the end.
I curl her down upon her bed, and her head
has forgotten hair, and is more a worn egg
Even all that old rage has fallen away
As she finally calls out for her son, her home.